They did not muddle Juliana Abraccia, or Lady Penelope, Ann Feathers, or any other maiden in the house. When he spoke to them they responded with animated pleasure, as though winning his attention was a gift not to be squandered. The gentlemen were not immune to him either. His quiet ease bespoke strength and authority to which even the titled lords among the party and the prince deferred. And his slight smile ensured his sovereignty. When he smiled, ladies fluttered lashes and sighed happily, and gentlemen relaxed their postures. He put everyone at ease.
Except her, apparently.
“Tonight,” she agreed, adamantly ignoring the tangles in her belly.
Oblivious to the objections of several of his guests that, given the presence of a murdered man in the castle, dancing was not appropriate, Prince Sebastiao insisted upon it after dinner. Employing Arielle Dijon and Cecilia Anders to play alternately, and assigning Lord Case and Mr. Anders to turn the pages, the castle’s young master set about cheering his morose and agitated guests.
“Do bring your right foot over the threshold, m’dear, and enter the room entirely if you will,” Petti said over his shoulder. He offered a fond smile as the bright notes of the first set came forth. “None of the gentlemen will bite, you know.”
“One of the gentlemen—or ladies—is a murderer,” she whispered, and peeked between his shoulder and Sir Beverley’s at the men and women lining up. Prince Sebastiao leaped between them with exclamations of pleasure, delightedly pairing ladies with gentlemen. “Biting is the least of my concerns.”
“Ah, is that what you were doing closeted with Courtenay for at least an hour after lunch?” Petti’s eyes twinkled. “I don’t blame you at all.”
Sir Beverley lifted a steely brow. “I shouldn’t tease her, Francis. She will only dig in her heels more firmly.”
“S’truth.” Petti sighed and shook his head. “Stubborn girl.”
“I do so enjoy it when you two speak about me in my presence as if I weren’t here. And Monsieur Sepic was in the room this afternoon, of course. Even if I wished it, biting could not have happened with him present.”
“Did you wish it?” Petti asked.
Ravenna’s face heated. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Go dance.”
With a merry glint in his eyes, he went forward with Sir Beverley. Lady Iona broke from the group and hurried to Ravenna.
“Ye mustn’t leave nou, lass. We’ve finally an opportunity for a wee bit o’ fun. Why, just look at those gentlemen eager for entertainment.”
“I cannot,” Ravenna said, watching Lord Vitor speak with Cecilia Anders. A trickle of nausea wound about her middle. “I’ve a task I must see to.”
“There be no task nou more important than winnin’ the hand o’ a prince, lass,” the Highland beauty admonished. “Whit else are ye here for? An’ look! He’s no’ got a partner yet.”
“You don’t either. And I don’t care for dancing.” Ravenna dragged her gaze from the handsomest man in the room. “Go on and enjoy yourself.”
Chestnut brows dipped. “Lass, I saw yer foot tappin’.”
“Foot tapping is different from dancing.”
Iona grasped her hand. “I like ye, Ravenna. An’ I’ll no’ take no for an answer.” She tugged.
Ravenna gripped the door frame. “It is not that I do not wish to dance, Iona,” she whispered. “I cannot dance.” Not like these people could. A country dance, perhaps, but even then she made a fabulous wreck of it, always grasping the wrong hands and flying off in the wrong directions. But farmers never cared about that sort of thing as long as the ale and laughter flowed.
This collection of elegant lords and ladies would be different. She could already feel Lady Penelope’s scathing sneer. It didn’t matter what girls like that thought of her. But she had long since vowed against voluntarily presenting herself for immolation.
“When did ye think to learn to dance, lass?” Iona said.
“Never.”
“I’ll teach ye.”
Over Lady Iona’s shoulder she could see Lord Vitor moving toward them. “No.” She pulled her hand away. “No, really. I must be going.”
Iona’s beautiful face lit. “My laird.” She grasped his arm because she, a duchess’s vivacious daughter, could do such things. Like every other girl in the castle, Iona wanted to do such things. Ravenna absolutely did not want to, no matter how firm and muscular that arm would certainly be. She felt hot and uncomfortable even considering it.
“Miss Caulfield has just told me a tragic tale,” Iona said upon a pretty pout.
No. Oh, no.
“Has she?” His tone was unremarkable but he studied her.
“She doesna ken hou to dance.” Iona released him and moved to Ravenna’s side to link arms. “There be only one solution: Ye must teach her, my laird.”
A smile played about his fine lips. “I should be honored to.”
“No. No you shouldn’t.” Ravenna tripped on her tongue. “And I shouldn’t either. I slipped on ice and injured my ankle this afternoon,” she invented. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
“As you wish, of course. I am devastated to know you have been injured,” he said quite sincerely, it seemed. He turned to the beauty. “Would you care to dance, my lady?”
She took his arm. “I would, my laird.”
They moved away. Iona cast her a curious glance, then smiled up at him gorgeously.
With a breath of relief, Ravenna slipped out of the drawing room and to the armory.
“HOW FARES YOUR ankle now?” Lord Vitor’s voice came from the armory doorway. The guard stood in sight just beyond him. “Better since you eschewed dancing?”
Ravenna set down the catalogue of arms and armaments she’d discovered on a shelf and stood. “Much better, thank you.”
He dismissed the guard with a gesture and moved into the chamber. “A great quantity of ice in Ladies Grace and Penelope’s bedchamber this afternoon, was there?”
“Lady Whitebarrow headed me off before I was able to search. I did gain access to Miss Anders’s bed chamber, but I found nothing of interest in it, of course.” She folded her hands behind her back. “And I did not need to make that excuse. I did so to avoid insulting you.”
“Was the prospect of dancing with me so horrifying?”
“Rather, mortifying.”
“I am flattered, madam.”
“Not you,” she said. “Truly, I haven’t a jot of coordination. If you think I wield a pitchfork effectively, you would be astounded to learn how deadly a weapon my heels can be when misplaced.”
“To thank you for sparing me such a fate would be ungentlemanly and in any case disingenuous. So I shall instead remain silent.” He glanced about the small chamber. A storage closet rather than a true room, it was packed with armor in varying states of decay. “Why are you here? The armor Walsh wore remains in the parlor.”
“I did intend to go there. Then I asked Monsieur Brazil to unlock this room instead. The other night we found this in his coat pocket.” She produced a dagger’s scabbard. Embossed with a coat of arms in gold, red, and blue, it was in fair condition, not more than two decades old by the looks of the leather and metal safety clasp, and well used. Also, empty.
He looked over the piece. “You came here to search for the blade before making a search of everyone’s belongings?”